


Chances Are

by riseelectric



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:23:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riseelectric/pseuds/riseelectric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I enjoy listening to you talk."<br/>In which Hawke has a <i>thing</i> for Fenris' voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just some silliness/kind-of tribute to Gideon Emery's voice, haha. Set before Act III.  
> 

The first time Hawke hears Fenris talk, he chokes on his own spit.

When the bounty hunter calls for his lieutenant, a quick glance tells Hawke that the others are ready to take up the challenge, each one of them shifting back into their stances, preparing themselves for another assault. Hawke himself wipes the sweat off his brow, his eyes darting towards the top of the steps, expecting at least a dozen figures to emerge. But then the hunter staggers around the corner, oozing blood from what from seemed like every orifice of his body, and Hawke's grimace turns from battle-ready to confusion.

"What in Andr--"

And then the equivalent of an auditory orgasm hits his eardrums, and Hawke interrupts himself mid-syllable, as if his body is literally forcing itself to shut the fuck up as to be able to better hear the Maker-blessed voice issuing from the slim silhouette stalking towards them.

"Your men are dead--"

Oh. Oh _no._

"--and your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can."

Hawke swallows. 'Your men are dead' aren't exactly words that inspire lust, and admittedly -- Maker's breath, the newcomer just burst that man's heart with his clawed excuse of a hand --  _that_   whole thing is a tad distracting, but Hawke's lips are suddenly dry and there's a slight tingling in his face that makes him glad that it's nightfall. Then the newcomer actually comes into the moonlight; a low appreciative whistle sounds from behind him -- Isabela, doubtless -- and Hawke thinks automatically:  _Same._

The elf introduces himself with the meaty pop of the bounty hunter's heart rupturing still ringing in their ears, and all Hawke can do is try not to salivate at his every word. If Hawke has to pinpoint the exact moment he knows he's fucked, good and proper, it would be this one.

 

* * *

 

No, wait. Scratch that, he's wrong. They're outside Danarius' mansion, discussing the lyrium markings, and then Hawke makes some stupid flirty remark or another that he doesn't quite remember anymore because it doesn't fucking matter, and Fenris actually  _chuckles._

It's nervous, short-lived, and followed by a pointed cough, but Hawke wants to hear him laugh again. He  _needs_  to hear him laugh again.

He will  _die_  if he doesn't hear him laugh again.

And  _that's_  the moment Hawke is fucked, good and proper.

 

* * *

 

"Hawke."

Ooh, that felt nice. Hawke suppresses a shiver and makes a show of looting the still-smoldering corpse and pretends not to hear, so Fenris has to say it again.

_"Hawke."_

That one felt even better. He turns towards the elf, completely nonchalant. "What is it?"

"The edge of your cloak is on fire."

"Wh-- oh  _shit--!!"_

 

* * *

 

Hawke's always prided himself on his incredibly incredible wit, and it's to his delight that Fenris' stunted sense of humour is right up his own alley. Up until now, Hawke's greatest ability was to be able to make an entire roomful of people groan in exasperation with a well-placed pun.

Well, it still is, but now whenever he's in Fenris' company, Hawke just says stuff --  _things_  -- with the unacknowledged hope that Fenris will find them vaguely amusing.

It's no big deal, really, that one of Hawke's new life goals is to hear the elf laugh outright without the sound being sardonic or bitter, or stemming from a morbid joke.

Just once, to hear laughter that was born from happiness.

It's not a big deal at all.

 

* * *

 

Snoring is one of the few sounds that nobody in the entire  _world_  finds attractive, in any context and situation, but somehow Hawke's convinced himself that Fenris would be able to pull it off.

A sexy snore, that is.

 

* * *

 

At one point, Hawke has to stop with his feigned deafness, because it's actually starting to have... side effects.

He once counts five different instances in a single day beginning with the sentence "Fenris wants me to tell you".  _Five_ different opportunities in which he and Fenris could have held a conversation, all of them wasted. When Hawke does finally stop the unfortunate messenger (Aveline, this time) mid-sentence to inquire why Fenris was choosing to send people to speak for him, she raises an eyebrow.

"Well, if I were constantly having to repeat everything I say to you, I would get tired of it too."

"What? I don't--"

"You do," Aveline cuts in, and Hawke can't tell if she's amused or not. "You're... not exactly discreet about it, Hawke. We've all wondered what was going on, if you disliked him in particular or--"

"I  _don't!"_  Hawke says, far too loudly, and Aveline's other eyebrow goes up as well.

"Don't dislike him, I mean," Hawke clarifies, sweating, because oh Maker this is the  _opposite_  of what he wants.

"Well... all right then." Aveline says, slowly. "I'll tell him to speak with you himself."

"Please do," he says, and if the look she gives him is more suspicious than usual, that's fine too. So long as Fenris talks to him again.

Thankfully, he does, even if he does send odd looks Hawke's way for quite a while after that.

 

* * *

 

"What do you think I can tell Fenris," Hawke asks drunkenly, one night while they're all (except the aforementioned elf) gathered round one of the tables in the Hanged Man, "to get a song from him?"

Laughter erupts in a small circle, raucous and immediate. "Fenris?" Varric echoes incredulously. And then, even more incredulously,  _"Singing?"_  and that sets them all off again.

"Ha, haha, ha," Hawke says too, because he has no choice.

"But seriously though," he asks again once the laughter's abated, with just the  _slightest_  bit of desperation, "any suggestions?" 

 

* * *

 

Hawke once tried to describe Fenris' voice, after the manner of Varric's storytelling. He's nowhere as eloquent -- not that anyone'll ever hear him admit that to the dwarf -- but he tried.

Keyword:  _tried._

In the end, the problem isn't so much that Hawke can't put what he  _thinks_  of Fenris' voice into words so much it is that he can't put  _Fenris_  into words, period. His voice  _(he)_  is low and and guttural and smooth all at once, beautiful and haughty and judgmental while simultaneously running an undercurrent of anxiety. Anxiety at the constant threat of hunters, at the company Hawke keeps, at Hawke himself.

At times, Fenris's voice can be as grating as he is, and it's never pleasant when he turns his awful sarcasm on anyone, but Hawke doesn't tire of it, doesn't turn away from him.

Because... there's a vulnerability there too, beneath all his anger and bitterness and resentment. He would never call any aspect of Fenris  _weak,_  but when Fenris finally tells him of the remnants of his past, green eyes downcast with regret and his voice heavy with shame, Hawke's own heart seems to ache with the weight of everything Fenris had already lost.

Point is, Fenris instills in him a simultaneous urge to hold the elf and to exact _violent murder_  on the magister called Danarius.

Point is, when it comes to describing Fenris, Hawke simply cannot do him justice.

What he can, and  _will_ , is to do right by him.

 

* * *

 

"Say it's for an experiment." Anders says, shrugging. "An experiment to see if he howls as well as his namesake."

"Er, what?"

"Don't you remember going on about wanting to hear Fenris sing?"

"... so me revealing that particular fantasy  _wasn't_  a dream."

Anders makes a face, looking as though he's both amused at Hawke and put off by this 'particular fantasy'. "Unfortunately, no," the former Warden says. "though personally, I doubt he can produce anything along the same vein as music. Not from someone like  _him."_

Hawke pinches the bridge of his nose. "Anders, your bias is showing."

The mage shrugs again. "Just my two cents."

 

* * *

 

This is something he won't bring up unless he's asked specifically (and no one's caught on yet, thus far), but Hawke's motivations for teaching Fenris how to read were purely selfish, at first.

Fenris is taciturn, but when he does make his thoughts known, the elf is quick to take offense and even quicker to deal it. His words are cutting and to the point, leaving no room for doubt on what his stances are and how he judges the world and everyone in it. Given Fenris' propensity to speak his mind and how open he is about his opinions, it's actually very easy to miss everything that he's  _not_  saying.

Hawke's noticed this since day one. And for every single day after that, he's wanted to hear  _every_  side of Fenris, not just the one the world has moulded. Even during Fenris' angry outbursts about magic and his snide comments about Kirkwall -- not to mention his constant bickering with Anders, which admittedly, got  _very_  tiresome  _very_  quickly -- a significant percentage of Hawke focuses on the passion in his voice, in the highs and lows of his intonation, and just sort of sighs dreamily. Hawke finds himself asking Fenris' opinion on everything, just to hear him speak. 'Inane prodding', Fenris calls it, irritation crawling off him in waves, but Hawke is only a little repentant.

If only there was some sort of activity where they could just sit down and have a nice lengthy chat (by which Hawke means a situation where he can sit with his chin in his hands and just listen to Fenris speak without having to worry about both of them being murdered)…

"Like a date?" Bethany suggests, knowingly, and Hawke feels that tingling in his face. Again.

"That's not helpful, sister," he grumps, but even as he turns away, he feels her smirk following him.

He finds the Book of Shartan not two days later, and amidst his mental whooping, Hawke genuinely feels as though providence is on his side, for once.

 

* * *

 

"--and if he steps on enough of them, it'll start to sound like a song!" Isabela finishes brightly. "Shrieking, singing... same thing, really. I promise it'll work! It's not as if he wears proper footwear, see."

There's a short pause.

"That," Hawke announces, throwing his hands up. "is the worst idea I've heard all week. Maker, this is useless. I don't know what I keep you all around for, I really don't."

"This isn't about Fenris singing at all though, is it?" Merrill says earnestly, with her typical embarrassingly unembarrassed bluntness. "Just tell him how you  _feel,_  Hawke."

"Good suggestion," Hawke says. "Next suggestion."

 

* * *

 

Fenris' voice takes on an edge when he's particularly incensed. It's pitched higher than his usual tone, but no less forceful. When he wants to hurt, he  _hurts,_  and he doesn't need a physical weapon when his brutal honesty alone feels akin to barbed arrows, sticking into one's flesh and staying there, festering. He's dangerous at the best of times, but when his voice turns into a growl and those green eyes are glaring  _daggers..._

... Hawke would be lying if he said he wasn't a little turned on by it.

Obviously, there are exceptions, like the times when that intense gaze is directed towards himself. But Fenris' ire towards him is usually short-lived, mostly because Hawke is not labouring under the illusion that he's perfect and never makes mistakes; because he  _tries,_  for Fenris' sake.

The elf knows that, at least.

 

* * *

 

"Tell him it's your name-day," Aveline says, without looking up from her meticulous polishing of her shield. "if he's so inclined, perhaps he'll sing happy name-day for you."

It's so reasonable that for a moment, Hawke can't think of anything to respond with.

"A lot of wine from his cellar probably wouldn't go amiss, either." the warrior adds as an afterthought.

 

* * *

 

So, it transpires that a drunk Fenris is a talkative Fenris. A talkative Fenris who, as it turns out, loathes being called upon to sing, because it's one of the things Danarius bid him to do on command, too.

One timid request on Hawke's end and an angry rant (plus several smashed bottles) later snuffed any potential enquiries dead. 

 

* * *

 

It's all right though.

The crux of the matter is that Fenris keeps setting his little traps and Hawke keeps falling in. He tripped over his own feet listening to that voice and fell straight into the abyss that was the elf's vivid green eyes; eyes that now threaten to drown him at every turn, eyes Hawke would go willingly to a thousand deaths for just to see them light up.

It's ridiculous, is what this is, and he's no longer himself when it comes to the Tevinter fugitive anymore. But little things like having no idea what he's doing has never stopped Hawke before. Ass-kicking, life-saving, and now, love-winning?

All in a day's work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Y'all should read taranoire's [fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2405567) regarding Orana and Fenris, because after reading that piece there is no other way I can picture/write their relationship. Seriously, go check it out before you read this (and all taranoire's other works as well, for good measure.)  
> 2.The song referenced is [Mage Pride](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxUrz7ZLCp8). I like to think that it isn't coincidence at all that Fenris' Theme is basically the instrumental of this song.

Hawke  _does_  get his wish to hear Fenris singing, one night. It's quite by accident, and it's an experience he will never mention to anyone else, the least of which is because it was never meant for his ears.

Fenris had come to visit; not Hawke, but Orana, and that is fine. Hawke gives them their privacy, confining himself mostly to his study and whiling the time away there.

By the time the notion of sleep is more a strong urge than an idle thought, the hour is late, very late, and Hawke is just passing by the door to Orana's room when he overhears it: the thrum of her lute and her voice lifted in a melody he's never heard her practice on her instrument before. Her voice, usually so shy, carries none of its uncertainty; instead, it lilts, speaking in a language that seemed to Hawke to be born from ashes, or grief.

" _\--toi ma dore. O_ _mnare vira tir rena. Turena... dorena._ "

He's about to leave, thinking that it'd be wrong of him to eavesdrop on a performance whose intended audience was only Fenris-- but then he hears the warrior's voice rise up and take on the melody, and despite himself Hawke all but freezes in his steps.

" _Tui e mea toi ma dore. O_ _mna home vira tir madore. Turena-- dorena--_ "

 _Longing_  is what Hawke hears, as Orana's voice rejoins Fenris' for the chorus... or perhaps it is loss. Whatever it is, it is given life anew as two voices from opposite ends of the spectrum harmonise and tell a tale the premise of which Hawke cannot even begin to understand, one high, one low, and both of them weaving a story that had no hope from the beginning. A story that was long-lost and forever-gone, the words of which would have been enough to put the world at its feet.

" _Domna miri, sollia._ _Sida alli-- domna miri sollia, sidanomi._ " 

He's never heard Fenris like this before. Everything's he's never been able to articulate in speech now gives itself a voice in song, and each syllable he and Orana utters is filled with things like fury and passion and violence and  _love_ \-- things that filled the fault lines of the soul and either made or destroyed it, things too inherent to ever be conquered--

" _Turena. Dorena._ "

\--things like that soared over cities and kingdoms and empires, ruin trailing in their wake. It's as if they've put the language of the stars into song, and Hawke... Hawke finds that he cannot bear it at all.

He retreats, but even as the notes fade from his mind, he knows its echoes won't fade from his memory.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Hawke. So, did you ever get the elf to sing for you?"

"I'm afraid that particular endeavour never went anywhere, Varric. Sorry to disappoint."

"Well, you  _were_  plastered at the time." A mocking sigh. "I suppose I'll have to strike that chapter from the book. It could have been such an adventure. A shame, really."

"What a shame, indeed."


End file.
